My fingers itch with the desire to create, to play, to sit down at a piano and let out every emotion inspired by the slow battle between the dying night sky and the stubborn brilliance of the rising sun.
Its rays illuminate the clouds on the horizon, promising that first blast of light so bright it burns.
No matter how hard the night tries to cling to the day, the brightness overtakes it.
“Good morning, Sunshine.”
A low, sultry voice breaks my concentration, and I turn to see Lou rubbing her eyes.
She joins me at the kitchenette window, and a smile breaks over her face just as the sun rises on the horizon.
The bright rays kiss her skin, casting an ethereal glow on her bare face, and I get a glimpse of her I haven’t seen yet.
It’s extraordinary.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asks, sighing. But there’s a weight to her sigh I can’t ignore.
“What is it?” I ask, even though I shouldn’t.
Being with her on tour is supposed to be a means to an end, but the longer I’m on this bus with her, the longer we’re in each other’s ears every night she performs, the less excited I am about that end.
Lou fancies herself an island, but she’s not.
She cares about people.
She wants to attach, but she’s terrified.
So rather than getting close to her band or even her assistant, she’s decided I’m the only safe person to get close to.
She couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’m the last guy she’s safe with.
The last person she should trust.
A part of me knows I need to push her away, but the other part of me is just so … fascinated by her.
She’s like storm clouds rolling in from the ocean—mesmerizing and dangerous.
At least to me.
“You know how it is. What grown-up doesn’t come home with a little baggage?”
“Not this one,” I say. I hold the mug up to my mouth, letting the steam waft over my face, leaving tiny droplets of hot water that cool rapidly, almost making me shiver.
She gives me a wry smile, but without the dark eye makeup, she looks younger. Also, her eyebrows are so light, they’re almost nonexistent. Her eyelashes, too. She doesn’t even have freckles—just those pale blue eyes and that mouth.
It’s a different kind of beauty than her made-up look.
After weeks of seeing both, I’m liking this one more than I should.
“How much sugar did you put in that coffee, anyway?” she asks suspiciously.
“About ten pounds. Why?”
She lunges for my mug, pressing into me as she reaches up on her tiptoes, her chest bumping into my torso. “Let me see that!”
I let out a laugh. “Why, so you can dump it out again?”
